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Marco pulled me close and bent to nuzzle my neck. The feeling made me jump––it was the same place where someone else used to do that, drive me crazy when he kissed me right there, under my jaw, with incredibly soft lips, not a scratchy goatee.
"You're so fucking sexy," Marco crooned into my ear. "Your ass is incredible."
His lips found my earlobe, but before he could do anything else, I pulled back. It reminded me too much of someone else, someone who could do that much, much better.
"So are you," I pronounced, ignoring the way my lips felt bloated around the words.
The vodka was seriously kicking in. I pulled Marco down to kiss me properly. He immediately sought entry in that sloppy way drunk people do. His tongue swiped around my mouth while his roving hands found my ass and squeezed. I tried not to feel repulsed. It wasn't hard. I didn't feel much at all.
Come on. Feel something. Feel anything.
But there was nothing but disgust with myself. My heart sank. Everything in my body sank. It was just no use. Every time he kissed me, I couldn't help but think about the person who used to kiss me like he meant it, used to make me feel every tremor of his touch from the tips of my hair down to my toes.
After a few moments, I put two hands on Marco's sturdy chest and pushed him off me.
"I have to go to the bathroom," I said, figuring at least I shouldn't outright tell an unfamiliar drunk male that he's just not doing it for me.
Marco nodded, his eyes glazed with alcohol and lust. "Sure, sure. I'll be out here."
I stumbled through the crowd and found my way to the congested bathroom at the end of a long hallway where, from the looks of it, several couple were looking for indecent exposure charges. It was hard not to look at the man with his hands clear up his date's skirt, at the couple in the back who were both half out of their shirts. It was harder still not to be jealous.
Once I was in the stall, I whipped out my phone. I knew it was a bad idea. I was drunk. I was being a cliché. And yet I swiped through my contacts anyway, telling myself I just wanted to look at his face, see that bashful, dimple-bearing smile he'd had when I'd snapped a photo of him in bed one bright morning. My heart turned over, and almost as if moving of their own accord, my thumbs tapped out a text to Brandon.
Me: Everything is wrong. I miss you. Too much.
My thumb hovered over the send button. No. I shouldn't send it. I sighed. Of course you shouldn't send it, you fool.
Someone slammed into the door to my stall with a loud bang and a rattle of the latch. Startled, I dropped my phone on the floor.
"You idiot, someone is in there!"
A hysterical cackle followed the intrusion, and I focused on breathing as I picked up my phone. But the screen was now different. Now there was a glowing return message.
Brandon: Where are you?
I stared in horrified shock. Startled by the intrusion, I must have accidentally pressed send. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! I started typing out another message to mitigate the first. Say it was a friend. Say it was a joke. Come up with anything but how you actually feel. But once again, the door was slammed into, and this time it flew open as several girls toppled into the stall around me.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" one of them yelped while the others laughed. They were all at least as drunk as I was, wearing heels that were twice as high, skirts that were half the length of mine. I just did my best to untangle myself from their jumbled, cackling mess, then washed my hands and escaped back into the club. There was no reason I needed to answer that message anyway. It was just looking for trouble, and not the kind I wanted.
On the dance floor, Marco was already prowling for a new partner. Someone put a hand around his neck, and I bit my lip, trying to stop tears from welling up. What was wrong with me? I didn't even care about this loser, and yet I was spitting jealous at seeing him kiss another girl.
I turned on one heel and weaved my way through the crowd, past a corner where Eric was getting very familiar with yet another girl, and ignored the several catcalls I received on my way out of the club.
"Lookin' good tonight, Red," jeered one guy as I neared the club entrance.
Without even thinking about it, I whirled around and shoved a hand on his sternum to slam him into the brick wall.
"Shut it," I said through gritted teeth, more calmly than I felt.
The world seemed a whir. All I could feel was anger and sadness––a very bad combination.
Outside, I welcomed a breath of fresh air, even clogged as it was by the pack of cigarette-smokers huddled just down the block. I placed a hand on the side of the building and heaved breaths. In and out. In and out. Outside, the world still spun, but at least I could breathe. A wave of nausea rose in my belly, and this time it didn't go away.
"Oh, God," I muttered, leaning into the cold bricks. And then I lost my dinner and most of my drinks against the crumbling mortar. What a fucking mess.
So concentrated was I on making the world stand still again that I hardly noticed the massive black sedan that pulled up in front of the club. I sucked in air and vaguely registered a clean, familiar, almond-laced scent wrapped around me as I threw up again. And again. A hand steadied my ribs, and another held back my hair.
When I was finally finished, I pulled a tissue out of my purse and blotted my mouth, breathing heavily against the wall as the hands left me. I took another deep breath and turned around.
